The Highland Queen's Vassal
by Initial A
Summary: Collection of prompts/ficlets about Merida and Lord Macintosh. Originally posted on Tumblr.
1. The War (Part 1)

**We needed about four days to process 5.08 before we could comprehend this tiny shipping gift we'd been given in 5.09. Brave Highlander away!**

* * *

To bloody _hell_ with her council and may a pox rot their eyes, the lot of them. She's the _queen_ , these are _her_ people, and she's expected to sit on her arse and wait while others fight her battles.

 _"Your Majesty, t'would surely leave the land split into civil war were you to die in battle with no heir."_

 _"D'ye suppose I've three brothers for nothing then?!"_

 _"My queen, three brothers born on the same day. Each clan would ally themselves with one brother they deem fit to rule and t'would be bloodshed until none are left or we're overtaken by another kingdom. We canna afford the weakness. Stay and govern."_

Merida stalks down the halls, both bitter and glad she's months past possessing teeth and claws as long and sharp as knives. Anyone who tries to calm their raging queen into returning to her chambers to rest will only have her sharp tongue to contend with. She'd not been able to sleep since the high council dismissed itself late - long past the midnight watch call - tossing and turning, fury mounting and worry whispering nonsense fears in her ears like a wisp. She'd given up one, perhaps two hours ago, wrapping herself in a dressing gown and going for a walk.

The weather of Dunbroch seems to agree with its queen. Rain lashes against the shuttered windows, thunder rolling in the distance. Gusts of air slipping through cracks in the shutters cause the torchlight to flicker. _A fine day to send those lads to war_ , Merida thinks sourly as she rounds another corner.

Her heart isn't beating any faster than it normally would as she makes long strides towards her destination. There's no reason for the blood to pound through her veins or for her breathing to sound so gods-be-damned _loud_ during the pre-dawn storm. And it's only the chill of the air that causes her hand to shake before she balls it into a fist and pounds on the heavy oak door.

She's taken the long way 'round, not because she's a coward, nay. She'd just needed to decide how to word what she's come to say.

She's ready to knock again when the door opens. He's shadowed by the fire in the grate behind him, but she can tell she didn't rouse him from slumber. "Good, yer awake," Merida says, her tone brisk as she pushes past him into the room.

"A fine thing for a lady to do, burstin' into a lad's chambers as they were her own," Macintosh grouses, his voice husky from lack of recent use.

"As it were I _do_ own them. It's my castle, ye lout," she retorts, turning on her heel and facing him.

He closes the door enough to leave a crack. "And to what pleasure do I owe my queen's presence at such a time?" Macintosh asks, his gallancy tinged with sarcasm. He doesn't bother to bow or scrape, just goes about gathering things from the room and setting them on a worn table next to a pack.

She swallows hard. His war pack.

From this angle, the fire throws him into sharp relief. He's only half-dressed, just his kilt and boots with no else - not even his ridiculous blue stripes to draw the eye to his toned shooting arm. His hair is damp, shining in the firelight, probably dunked his head in the washbin like the fool man he is.

Not that she's noticing him, or the way the light flickers across his skin and turns it her favorite shade of golden sunset, or the strands of hair that stick to his stubbled jaw.

"Yer to be leadin' a war party, Macintosh," she says, propping her hands on her hips. "I'm here remindin' ye of the lads in yer charge, their mams and sweethearts at home waitin'."

He glances up at her, working at rolling spare clothes in a tight bundle to save on space. The firelight makes his eyes darker, the shadows making it almost difficult to make out the wry quirk of his lips. "Aye, milady, of that I know. Still, no need to come bustlin' down in yer dressin' gown on my account."

Merida bristles. "It's not on yer account, it's theirs! Ye forget yourself, man, I've seen ye in war before. Ye -"

"-have a cool head and have quite a few successful battles under me kilt. Beggin' my queen's pardon," Macintosh says, inclining his head at the cheek.

She's glad of the fire's light now - she feels heat in her cheeks, knows she likely resembles a beet with bushy hair. She's a dreadful blusher when it comes to shame. "Still," she says, dropping her arms as he continues to pack. "I donna like it anymore than them. T'were it my choice, I'd be leadin' the raids myself." He looks at her sharply, but says nothing as she fiddles with the ties that keep her gown closed. "I donna like sittin' on my arse, useless as a bag of flour. It's _my_ kingdom bein' threatened and they treat me like, like -"

"Like a queen," Macintosh murmurs, setting his pack down. "Merida, yer queen now, ye've more than wars to fight."

" _Don't_ call me Merida," she snaps.

" _Milady_ ," he says, his eye catching hers and her insides feel funny when he grins. "Ye canna be everywhere at once. Think of us as yer council. They know their trades, we know ours. We have our duties, we report to ye. The kingdom survives."

Merida moves, needing something to do with her hands. Her eyes flit around the room, landing on the ceramic pot and brush she knows he uses for his silly war stripes. "Sit," she orders in her best queen voice, picking up the pot and brush. "I won't be havin' lectures from the likes of ye, I know my duty."

He sits, an amused look on his face. "Sure and yer a rare hand with a bow, but a brush?"

The bristles drop with paint and she threatens the tip of his nose with it. He has the cheek to grin. "Be still, ye doaty lad, lest ye want yer wee silly squiggles a bloody mess."

Her heart leaps into her throat as she considers the alternative of that bloody mess and she has to breathe deeply to steady her hand.

Macintosh sits still as stone as she draws lines over his shoulder, his chest. The thunder in the distance startles him not a whit, nor when she leans in closer to ensure her lines are straight. She's careful in the sweeps of the brush down his bicep, watching the paint dip and curve around the defined muscle: he's one of her best warriors - aside from herself - with strong arms to heft his broadsword and draw his longbow. "Lift," she commands quietly, tapping his arm with the wooden end of the brush. She circles her way down his forearm, then hesitates when she reaches his wrists - he wears bracers, does the paint continue? Her clan isn't one for paints, she doesn't know the custom.

"Down t' the wrist, milady," Macintosh murmurs, looking up at her from beneath his ridiculously long eyelashes.

He bends his arm, bringing his hand at eye level with her. Merida's breath catches in her throat, the firelight playing tricks on his skin and making her feel ridiculous things. She squares her shoulders and finishes the job with hardly a flourish. "There. Wait for it to dry before ye put on the other male nonsense or I'll have to redo the lot."

Macintosh has the gall to chuckle at his queen and she purses her lips. "And I would hate to discomfit my queen."

She glances away, frowning. "Aye. Well. As ye should."

A log pops in the fireplace. The rain pounds away at the shutters. Merida busies herself with putting away the pot and cleaning the brush in the washbasin - truly, were she to dump the lot out the window, she could have it refilled clean in two shakes of a bear's rump. She's heard waterfalls with less force than this storm the gods have set upon them.

She can feel his eyes on her the entire time she bustles about, cleaning up after herself and then taking it upon herself to check the edges of his blades. He says not a word but she knows he's watching, from drawing one of her hairs over his sword to pricking her finger on every one of his arrowheads. She bothers not with the _sgain-dubh_ \- _everyone_ keeps a _sgain-dubh_ sharp, even the dunderheads. She knows he's not so much a fool as she pretends him to be, but their enemies are clever. Crafty.

She wants to be sure of him.

Once everything is in order again, she wrings her hands, still with her back to him and feeling him watching her intently.

She should leave.

She should st - nay, she should leave. He has preparations to complete, lads to rally, a storm to weather.

"I'll leave ye to it," she says, turning and heading for the door, sparing him not one glance.

"Merida."

His tone makes her stop, his careless use of her given name makes her temper spark up again, feeling him step up behind her makes her knees feel so much like the jelly on the breakfast table. He doesn't touch her and she's glad of it - some wee part of her wants it, but the rest of her knows she'll not leave if he does.

She whirls, glaring up at him with as much ferocity as she can muster. "Ye'll come back," she says tersely. He's looking at her all gentle, his eyes soft in the dimness, his mouth in a smile that's half smug and half - half something she doesn't care to name. Merida swallows hard. "Ye'll come back with all those lads in hand, or I swear to all the gods I'll hunt ye down and kill ye myself. Am I clear, Macintosh?"

He touches her hand and she wants to jerk it away, the spark and the heat too much, but he's gripping her fingers and stepping back, kneeling before her with his head bowed over her hand. Her heart shouldn't be thrumming this loudly - he hears it for certain - but she forces herself to be still as he says, "As my queen wishes it, so it shall be done."

She all but snatches her hand from his too-warm grasp. "Aye. So it shall."

She whirls on the spot again, leaving his fool self there on the floor, wrenching the door open. She's halfway out the door, closing it behind her, when she hesitates. She doesn't dare look back, her words hardly above a whisper. "Gods be with ye."

She closes the door behind her before he can even think to respond.


	2. The War (Part 2)

**Anonymous wanted a continuation after Macintosh came home.**

* * *

She knows.

She's known for days, as fast as messenger birds can fly from the battlefields. Humans and horses are a mite slower, so she's had time to prepare.

They're safe after several weeks of skirmishes and clashing war parties, the enemy beaten off with their tails between their legs for a time. Dunbroch breathes on, its lifeblood made up of the mundane everyday life: women at their weaving, farmers in their fields, witches in their woods.

They're safe, but they're hurting.

The crown on her head has never felt heavier than in this moment. Macintosh kneels before her, head bowed. The rains haven't let up in weeks; his hair is matted to his face and neck, his wee silly stripes bleed blue down his chest and arm. The paint has probably stained his cloak and it's a shame. It's a good cloak, warm and practical. But in the end, she supposes it doesn't matter. All good things must come to an end.

The pommel of her clan's broadsword is warm under her hands. Her arms don't shake, she's had days to come to this on her own terms. She's steady, far steadier than she was the night she sent him off with a plea masked as a warning. The night he made her a promise.

"Lord Macintosh." Merida's voice rings clear through the hardly occupied throne room. He's her last audience of the afternoon. She'd ordered everyone and their dams out, leaving her to deal with her vassal alone. "Ye were given orders afore leavin' Dunbroch, true or nay?"

"True, milady." Macintosh's voice is quiet.

"Pray, repeat these orders."

His head lifts slightly. He's looking at her from under those lashes again, that way that makes heat course through her, but there's no gentleness there today. There's only remorse. She can see the man's lump in his throat bob as he swallows. "Ye told me, great lady, ' _Ye'll come back with all those lads in hand, or I swear to all the gods I'll hunt ye down and kill ye myself._ ' Ye asked if ye were clear or no."

"And ye said?" she asks, lifting her chin as a challenge.

His head bows down again, his hair a curtain hiding him from her again. "Aye. I said aye, for my queen wished it so."

"And what happened? When ye go' to the battleground?"

Merida can hear Macintosh's unsteady breath before he speaks. "I failed ye."

She can see the way his body shifts, his shoulders losing their proud stance and rounding out. She can see his weight falling on the fist pressed into the ground.

This is a defeated man. A proud man who failed to keep his word.

And even though she's had days to prepare herself for this moment, her heart breaks.

She stands, the pommel of the ancient sword digging into her hand. In two strides the sword clatters to the stone floor and she's falling to her knees before him, her arms going 'round his neck. "Ye didna fail me, Macintosh, ye great bloody bastard of a badger," she whispers fiercely into his damp and matted hair, and gods help her the smell of rain and his own musk makes her dizzy. " _I know_."

He's stiff as stone; she can't even feel his breath and she worries she may have stunned the poor lad into an early grave, but then he's pulling back and looking at her with the most incredulous look of shock she's ever seen. "Merida, th' lad died because –"

"Because there were nigh thirty berserkers betwixt and between ye and he, an' if the other lads hadna pulled ye out o' the way o' a wayward axe we wouldna be havin' this conversation," Merida says softly. She can't help herself, reaching up to finger some of his wayward hair from his face. His eyes widen ever so slightly and the lump in his throat bobs again. "Ye tried, boyo. Ye got every last one o' them lads home, save one. An' even then, ye brought his body home. His soul wonna be lookin' for trouble now."

Macintosh looks down. "Milady, ye said –"

"What I said was between ye and me, as is now. It's a fool queen who makes an order she knows canna be followed through. But ye came _back_." Merida covers his hand with hers; it's her turn to swallow hard as she looks down at their hands. Feelings were never her strongest suit, aside from her infamous temper. Her mouth works for a moment, trying to find words to explain herself and failing miserably.

"Merida."

The last time he said her name like that, she was filled with fire and desire. This time, she's filled with butterflies and soft, silly things. "A fine thing, to disrespect your queen," she whispers, unable to look up at him.

" _Queen_ Merida. Silly lass, would ye look at me for a mo'?"

She ought to punch him right in the nose for that, hang him by his wrists outside the castle gate, and she looks up to tell him so – but then his mouth is on hers and all the noise she can make is an extremely undignified squeak. He breathes a laugh against her and she's _desperate_ to punch him in the face.

So she does.

With her mouth.

He grunts in surprise at the force with which she kisses him back and he loses balance – they go toppling backwards and she cares not a whit. Clearly he doesn't mind it either because his hands are at her sides and in her hair and he's doing something wonderous with his teeth on her lower lip.

They end up on their sides when the ferocity dies down, facing one another, his hand practically engulfing her hip, breathing hard. Merida rests her forehead against his. "Ye came back to _me_ ," she whispers.

* * *

 **Reviews are always lovely. I'm over on Tumblr as initiala as well.**


	3. Macintosh's Quest

**Pally_the_Second wanted to see Macintosh go to Storybrooke to find his queen.**

 **This almost 5,000 word madness spawned.**

* * *

The steady hand with which he led his horse lay at complete odds with his fuming temper. The lass might be queen of every tree and toadstool for miles around, but she were the most infuriating, stubborn, loud-mouthed _hen_ he's ever had the displeasure of crossing a blade with.

Macintosh fumed, guiding his horse down the rocky trail. Her Royal Pain-in-the-Arse insisted on this spying nonsense - pay no mind to the truths that she had watchers for that sort of thing. Dunbroch's borders with Camelot were well-secured. Nay, Queen High-and-Mighty wanted the job done herself. She hardly said the word afore she marched her royal arse down to the stables, a bow in her hand and a quiver slung across her back. And Macintosh, he'd seen enough of the madness spewed by the King of Camelot to know he'd best accompany her - much to the queen's annoyance.

Oh, aye, he knew the queen had little fondness of him. But he, being the most accomplished of her vassals, made the most sense to watch her back, bring her home. He'd already accepted her as his Queen, he was damn sure he'd fulfill his duties to her. And that meant he wasna about to let her die from her own stubborn foolishness.

They'd split up after another argument - at this point he couldna remember what it had been about. They'd bickered about his presence on the ride to the border. Then there'd been a nasty bit about his lack of proper protection. Then some quibble o'er her skirts in a saddle. After that, it got muddled - travel at night, mayhaps? He'd had enough, declared his desire to make the work of checking the border come to completion faster, and took a different fork in the trail.

No too far, though. He had to be within hearing of a distress call.

He couldna imagine Queen Merida calling out in distress.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and Macintosh sighed. While they were downslope from the worst of it, storms moved fast in the highlands. "Merida!" he called, wheeling his horse around, back the way he came. Nothing would fetch her faster than thinking she were being disrespected. "Lass, best we no be in th' open, lest we want to add a chill t' yer royal consequence."

She must have been further from him than expected. His horse carefully picked through the path as Macintosh reached for his horn. He blew the call for status, if she was well or hurt, and no a sound came back but the thunder rolling ever closer. "Bloody hells, woman," he muttered, kicking his horse to a trot.

Cresting the ridge, he paused midway in lifting the horn to his lips once more.

The mass of purple smoke flooding the forest was decidedly _no_ a highland storm.

Macintosh blew the warning call, praying to the gods that Merida had spotted this - this _witchcraft_ rolling ever closer and fled to safety. For surely this were magic of the darkest kind, roiling and broiling with rage and hatred, damning all it touched. Panic threatened to grip his heart, as t'would all men with sense, but he prided himself on his uncommon sense when it came to battle. He quelled the panic with a warrior's mindset, looking to the terrain for an advantage, sizing up his enemy.

A woman's shrieking cry pierced the air, urging her horse faster.

Panic won.

"MERIDA!" Macintosh bellowed, kicking his horse into motion. Were there devils in the cursed smoke or plain death? "TO ME, LASS, TO ME!"

"Macintosh!"

She sounded close; he could barely hear the crash of her horse through leaves and sticks o'er the magic's thunder. He scanned the rise, cursing the night for blinding him further, searching for sommat to shelter them should he find her - _there_. A rock outcropping, the dark pit beneath signaling a cave of sorts. They could block up the entrance, possibly with one of the horses - it were a sacrifice he was willing to make to ensure her safety. He urged his horse on, heading for the trees and the sound of her voice, when the queerest thing happened:

The magic stopped.

It was as if an invisible wall stopped up its path, the smoke curling up on itself at the tree line. The back of his neck prickled, gooseflesh rippling down his skin. What wicked one had crafted this magic?

Macintosh dismounted, taking cautious steps towards the tree line. His hands itched for his sword or a bow, some sort of defense, but even he knew when he had a snowflake's chance in all seven hells of beating sommat. Magic could only be countered with magic.

"Merida!" he shouted, trying to peer through the smoke.

"Macintosh!" There - a flash of red, her great mass of curling hair bouncing through the endless purple. "Ye great bloody git, save yer own skin ye doty -"

There was a great crack of thunder, drowning out the rest of her words. He winced against the sound, waiting for his hearing to return. "Merida!"

Nothing.

He didna dare touch the invisible wall. The smoke built higher and higher behind it, shielding the trees from view. Fear pricked the back of his neck once more, his pulse hammering in his throat as he scanned the sight in front of him, and any hope of seeing another flash of his queen's infamous hair died as the purple smoke slowly turned black.

Was it poison? Some sort of cursed death enacted by the Mad King of Camelot?

"Seven bloody hells," he muttered, drawing his blade. Poison, death, or magic it may be, but his duty came first. His Queen was in there and he'd sworn to bring her home.

And walls - even invisible ones - could be broken down.

* * *

Though he's had more foolish thoughts, he canna remember a one when he opened his eyes again. The sun had risen. The world came into focus slowly, his head an aching mess, his sword hand numb. As he sat up, it came to him that he'd tried to cleave a path into the smoke. It must have been magic that blasted him several feet back, knocked him out, and shocked his hand enough that it had no feeling hours later. After a moment, he looked up, guessing it not to be quite noon yet.

Before him, the cursed smoke churned still, though it were quiet now. He fumed, picking up his blade with his free hand and resheathing it clumsily. His horse grazed nearby, thank the gods. T'would be a bit of a trek, but he knew of a witch in a nearby wood. If anyone would know a way to free the queen from this curse, a witch would.

* * *

It took several minutes of pounding on the weather-worn door of the witch's hut, but eventually he heard her grumbling inside. He stepped back and waited. "A mite late t' be payin' social calls, lad," the witch grumbled as she opened the door.

Macintosh bowed stiffly. Dusk had come and gone while he'd ventured to the witch's wood, the moon rising higher in the east. "Apologies, grand lady, but I wouldna be here without good reason."

She eyed him suspiciously for a long moment, then nodded. "Aye, ye wouldna be. Ye donna do anythin' withou' reason. Come in, lad, we'll see if Baba Senga can help ye."

He followed her in, closing the door behind him; he felt very much at her mercy, but he supposed it were necessary. She gestured for him to sit at a roughly worked table and chairs. "Now, yer searchin' for sommat," Baba Senga said, sitting with a stiffness that spoke of an ache in her joints.

"Someone, grand lady. The queen has been taken in by magic I ne'er saw afore," Macintosh explained. "I swore to protect her an' it's useless against magic I am."

The witch narrowed her eyes. "Explain the magic to me," she commanded.

He watched her face as he did; she wasna one to hide her emotions, Baba Senga. She listened with rapt attention, leaning forward more and more as he described the smoke and the effects at the tree line. Her eyebrows would come together and raise at turns as if she were watching a particularly difficult puzzle solved before her eyes. When he finished, she sat back. "A Dark Curse," the witch muttered. "Seems to be many o' them these days…"

Macintosh waited for her to reach her point. If witches were anything like scholars, they could talk for days afore reaching their point. She muttered to herself for a while; he caught words like _Misthaven, snow white_ and _evil queen_ , but they held no special meaning to him save for the kingdom that were several weeks journey from Dunbroch. Finally, Baba Senga looked at him. "The queen ye seek is no longer in this world," she informed him.

Once, when he was but a lad, he'd gone outside after an early-season snowstorm. He'd been determined to learn how to brave all the elements, become the finest warrior in his clan. It seemed like a good idea to learn how to build snow shelters and track animals for a hunt.

Only the snow had covered everything, including the nearby loch. He'd been but a wee thing, but the ice wasna thick enough yet to support him. He'd fallen right through, the frigid waters piercing his skin like thousands of knives.

Macintosh felt that same sensation now.

"That's no possible," he said, the words falling from numb lips.

Baba Senga frowned. "The Dark Curse is wha' _makes_ it possible, lad. It brings everyone it touches to a land withou' magic, alters the victims' minds, destroys and freezes the kingdom it curses in time. Yer queen isna _here_ , lad. She's gone."

"Where?"

She sighed in exasperation. "I jus' said, ye doaty lad, _listen_ when a grandmother speaks. The land withou' magic. Tis a terrible curse indeed."

His nails bit into his palms. Unacceptable. It were unacceptable, she wasna _gone_ , she couldna - Nay. No one and nothing took Merida the Obstinate anywhere she didna want to be. It weren't possible. Baba Senga eyed him again. "Lad, there's no anything ye can do. Truth, I'm glad ye came to me, I can pack me carpetbags and find ano'er wood. The land will run red with blood withou' her proper queen. It's too old to bother with war, I am."

Macintosh's jaw ached; he realized with a start that he'd been grinding his teeth. Nay, this were what Merida had been fighting against, protecting her people from civil war and defending her crown.

He'd sworn to bring her home safe. He'd sworn his loyalty to her and her crown.

"How?" Macintosh asked.

"Mm?" The witch had gotten up while he made his decision, puttering around the one-room shack in search of sommat. "How wha', lad?"

"How do I find her?"

"Find her? Ye canna _find_ her, _she's gone_. Cursed, disappeared, clean vanished. Men, I wonder the lot of ye haven' knocked all the brains from yer skulls with all the sword bashin' and shield-throwin'," Baba Senga muttered the last bit almost to herself. "Unless ye get through the barrier betwixt kingdoms, ye canna get to her."

"Nay." Macintosh knocked over his chair as he stood. "Nay, yer a witch, ye've magic, ye _know_ how I can get to the queen, yer just a stubborn old nag who canna be bothered to -"

The air suddenly felt very tight; the room darkened, even with the fire burning in its put. The air crackled as the witch loomed in his vision, hair wild and eyes almost glowing with power unseen. "Ye forget yerself, Lord Macintosh," she said, her voice backed with a distant echo. "Step careful, boy, lest ye wan' t' spend yer days as a toadstool."

The fear was back, this one an icy grip on his nape. He managed a quick nod and the room brightened again; it got easier to breathe. The witch went back to puttering. "If ye so desire to find the queen, ye have a test to complete."

He said nothing as she pulled an old scroll from a shelf. A test he could handle - a physical one, at least. Baba Senga handed him the scroll. "There is a river, a ha' day's journey from here. My birdies say a shellycoat is up to mischief. Ye take care o' the shellycoat, bring a shell from its coat to me, an' we'll see about yer queen."

Macintosh frowned, unrolling the paper and reading the missive. "Shellycoats are harmless."

"Aye, but this one isna up to any good. See what burr got stuck under its tail, come back."

He didna like the idea of attacking a creature that spent its time in harmless amusement. But if it got him back to the queen, he'd do whatever it took. "Aye. Consider it done."

* * *

Half a day's journey took longer when he stopped to rest for several hours. Shellycoats were no considered particularly dangerous - annoying, more like - but if it were cursed or deranged, he needed some semblance of wits about him. No telling what nonsense a mad creature could get up to.

He came upon the river sometime in the afternoon. It took some trekking - back and forth along the riverbank for an hour or more, listening for the cry of a poor drowning soul -

A giggle.

Macintosh crept through the reeds, sword drawn and at the ready. There were other giggles, enough that he wondered if he were being led astray already from his prey, when he came upon a clearing with two shadowed figures, dim light blooming from a circle of flowers. "Oh, and a fine specimen this un is."

Macintosh blinked as the clearing brightened. A sidhe, wings buzzing as she flit around his head, giggled in his ear. A small thing she was, hair as pale as moonlight and twice as bright, violet eyes hardly visible through the glow she emitted. "Eunan, looka here, this un's here f'r his true love," the sidhe practically sang, her voice as light as a summer eve's breeze; she circled him once more before buzzing back to the shellycoat standing dumbly in the clearing.

"The witch sent ye." The shellycoat's - Eunan's? - voice was slow and deep, calling to mind a river that's lost its wild youth and flows serenely to the sea. "Aye, she's never had a fondness f'r me an' Miore."

The sidhe - Miore, he presumed - huffed. "Prejudiced she is. Who says we canna have love? Sent ye to split us up, I presume."

Macintosh blinked, dumbfounded. A shellycoat and a sidhe in love? But sidhe took shines to lovely creatures, everyone were taught this from cradle to grave. And a shellycoat… This one had green skin and scales like a fish; he could smell the water-weed net woven into Eunan's coat and clanking with shells upon shells from where he stood. Macintosh couldna imagine a more different pair.

And what's this nonsense about true love?

"Baba Senga sent me," Macintosh said. "She spun a tale of a shellycoat causin' all sorts of mischief."

Eunan sighed. "Baba Senga holds an old bitterness agains' me."

Miore huffed again. "Twas nearly a century ago, I chose ye f'r yer heart, love."

There was a story here, one Macintosh had no time to listen to. He could put the pieces together, though. "So the witch sent me to murder out of heartbreak?"

"Simply put, yes," Miore said, fluttering in front of the shellycoat and taking a shell. She buzzed back to Macintosh, the shell almost as large as she. "Here. She'll be satisfied wiv a trophy, no questions asked, no until her birds send word of Eunan's survival. She's never learned, poor lass. Yer no the first nor las' I expect. Eunan is me own truest love. Senga the Righteous has ne'er gotten past her own feelings f'r me, e'ery decade or so she sends a poor lad along to off my man. Go, take this and find your own love."

She pressed the shell into his hand. Macintosh shook his head as he tucked it into his sporran. The night was warm to make his skin feel so flush. "I thank ye, great lady, but I quest for my queen, no my love."

Miore tilted her head. He couldna read her expression through the glow, but she folded her hands in front of her as she considered him. "Aye, ye havena got that far yet. But ye will. Old Miore's ne'er been wrong yet."

Macintosh tried not to scoff, he did. Merida, his true love? Madness, the sidhe must be moon-touched to think so. The lass was infuriating, a thorn in his side. A two-minute talk with her could leave a man in a rage for hours, bull-headed…

A flash of memory, the sight of her whirling in the practice yards with a blade, her curling mass of hair whipping about as she moved deftly, no missing a step as her sword turned to nothing more than a silver blur. The way she could hit the same mark with her bow three times over, blindfolded.

Aye, she was an infuriating woman, but she were poetry with a weapon in her hand. He was man enough to admit that.

Macintosh bowed shortly. "Thank ye, both o' ye."

"Gods bless yer journey, young lordling," Miore said as he turned to go. "Ye've a hard path t' walk ahead o' ye."

The light dimmed and vanished as he trekked back through the reeds. Macintosh looked behind him and saw naught but reeds and trees and the moon rising in the sky, the sidhe and her shellycoat lover nowhere to be found.

* * *

The pace infuriated him, but he and his horse needed food and rest. He would be useless indeed if he arrived in the land without magic a half-dead man, starving and sleep-deprived. It took a full day and a half to reach Baba Senga's hut once more.

Miore had been right, the witch asked no questions as she took the shell from him. She instructed him to make camp in the clearing outside and wait for her to fetch him.

He didna know what she did for the next several days. He spent his time hunting, caring for his horse, practicing his weapons. He didna think about Miore's words, about Merida being his true love. It was nonsense, truly. In all the tales, those whose love was true knew in an instant, the moment they met. The only thing he'd known when he first met Merida was that he'd rather be anywhere except the foolish contest set by the clans' lords. He remembered she'd been just as bored, possibly more because of her seat on the dias.

His lips curled into a smile, remembering the defiant curl she'd pulled from under her wimple, the way she'd glared at her mother as if daring her to scold her in public, the way her dress had perfectly matched the color of her eyes.

On the seventh day, just as he was about to lose his mind with boredom and worry, Baba Senga emerged from her hut with a potion and a parcel. "Use this t' get t' the land withou' magic," she said, pressing the bottled potion in his hand. "Go t' the border, splash it on the ground. Th' rest will come as it may. And when yer ready t' return home, use this." She tucked the parcel into his sporran. "Donna tell anyone where ye got this, else I'll have all manner of beasts and menfolk swarming me hut. I canna have that."

"Thank ye," Macintosh said, his heart hammering in his chest. Finally. Nearly a fortnight had passed, surely sommat bad must be brewing at the castle. He had to get to her. Today.

The witch flapped her hand. "Nonsense. Should be I thankin' ye. Now go, fetch your lady home."

He wanted to protest, _she's no his lady_ , but then he thought better of it. Why else call her "my lady" or "my queen"? She wasna _his_ , she were everyone's in Dunbroch.

The ride to the border took almost no time at all, as if his horse were Pegasus itself. The smoke were still there, curling and bubbling behind the invisible wall. He doesna know if that's a good or bad sign. He dismounted, gathering the tools he'd decided to bring with him. He set them aside, doing the quick work of unsaddling his horse and stowing the leftovers in a cache. He didna know how long he'd be gone, no sense leaving his poor horse with a burden and a bit in his mouth for days on end.

Macintosh settled his tools of choice in their sheathes and in a pack on his back, then uncorked the potion. He tipped its contents towards the ground, thought of Merida, and the world went dark.

* * *

He woke in a forest.

The trees were different, no anything he recognized from home. He heard birds, their songs unfamiliar, and animals moving in the plant litter. The trees thinned ahead, showing what he presumed to be a ridge. That would give him a vantage point, decide where to start his search for his queen.

At the top of the ridge, a valley spread below him: mostly trees, but a settlement in the distance caught his attention. He shaded his eyes against the sun; the buildings were much different than those at home, more… structured? Smooth roofs, no thatch, rigid walls that didna tilt.

If it were truly a settlement, perhaps Merida were held hostage there.

The trek to the settlement took an hour at most, but it were the queerest thing. The forest trails gave way to black rock paths lined in paints. He supposed they were for carriages, for he'd found naught else than deer trails during his trek, but it seemed a waste of magic to transport the black stones and smooth them out for a carriage's wheels.

The stone paths did make for a quicker walk into the town.

The town itself was eerie, not a soul to be found. His earlier assessment had been correct, the town seemingly much more advanced than their villages. Strange metal contraptions lined the stone paths, which increased in numbers and crossed one another at regular intervals. But no an animal to be found, _nothing_.

Perhaps he'd gotten it wrong.

Night started to fall as he scoured the town, from the center out into what he suspected were homes for the residents. Grand things, these houses, like small castles in their own right… Macintosh walked until he wearied, kipping under a tree until the sun rose. He feasted on dried fruits and strips of jerky, his body used to such conditions but disliking them all the same. Nothing in this town _seemed_ dangerous, but he had to find Merida soon if he was to be in any shape to face her kidnapper.

He wished he had one of her gods-be-damned wisps, have it guide his way to her. He wished _she'd_ find _him_ , tell him off for taking so long.

Gods, he could already hear the list of complaints against him. He smirked. Aye, she'd be plenty pissed at him and she could ream him out all she liked so long as she were alive to do so.

He walked all day and still no signs of life, no signs of anyone at all. He came again upon the woods at the edge of the town, sitting hard on a felled tree and raking his fingers through his hair. Save for entering every gods-cursed dwelling in the town, he'd scoured the place and no sign of her. He was prepared to do it, burst into every home and tear it apart to find his queen, but the thought wearied him. He needed rest, he needed -

"Move, and yer eyes become planters for an arrow's bloom."

His heart almost stopped.

"Milady, y'would be a poor repayment f'r all I've done f'r ye," he said softly.

Leaves rustled and suddenly she was before him, arrow nocked and bowstring taut. She stared hard, her eyes darting over him, her face tense. There was a long moment - his eyes never leaving hers, her arrow pointed at his skull - and then finally her arms dropped, her bow and its arrow hitting the dirt. "Macintosh?"

Merida's voice was a whisper, disbelief etched across her face. He stood and in another moment he couldna help himself, clutching her and hugging her tight to his chest. "Gods be praised, yer safe," he whispered.

She struggled for a moment. "Seven _hells_ , man, I'm yer queen, stop manhandling me!" Her face was flushed as he released her, her pink skin clashing horribly with her hair; she wasna a pretty blusher, Merida. "How in… _anything's_ name did ye get here?" she asked, avoiding his gaze.

"Lass, ye wouldna believe me if I said," he told her.

She snorted. "Aye, well the week I've had - Dark Ones and havin' me heart ripped from me chest and memories being stolen - I can believe jus' about' anythin' these days."

Macintosh faltered. Her heart had been taken? But here she stood, hearty and hale, ready to sink an arrow into his eye. "Lass, what -"

She waved him off. "I'll explain later. Ye, on the other hand, how in the world did ye get here? Ye weren't cursed? And in the gods' names _why_?"

He gestured for her to sit. Truth, he were tired and seeing her alive had sapped all the energy from his bones. "I swore to protect ye," Macintosh said.

Merida eyed him incredulously. "And what's tha' t' do with the price o' pinecones in Perth?" she demanded.

"Merida -"

" _Queen_ Merida."

" _Milady_ ," he said, inclining his head. Her temper was sparking up now; it made him grin to hear it. "It's why I'm here, lass. I swore to bring ye home safe. Twas no curse that brought me here, jus' an old witch's brew."

She was looking at him oddly. "Ye went to a witch."

"Aye."

"And told her t' brew you sommat that would tear ye from our world into this strange one." He nodded. Her brows came together. "With _no_ idea how to find me."

He nodded again. She promptly boxed his ear. "Yer madder than a hatter, Macintosh," she said, fuming. "Ye've no idea the danger that jus' passed, how many times ye could have been killed had ye come a day sooner -"

It were a lovely thing, hearing her rant at him, seeing the way her temper made her eyes shine. It were simply relief, the gladness that he'd found her and she could scold him all she pleased, that made him lean forward and kiss her.

She squeaked, her body stiffening at the new sensation. When his lips moved against hers, she responded hesitantly, as if she were unsure how to go about such a thing. But after another moment she pushed back, a growl in her throat, her breath coming faster as she pressed them together.

Naturally, Her Royal Feiriness would see kissing as another battle to be won.

Not that he was complaining.

When they parted, both of them winded and resting their foreheads together, she muttered, "I'll have yer head on a spike above me gate f'r that."

"Nay, then ye couldna kiss me again," he teased and she backhanded his chest.

"Yer not that good a kisser, boyo," she taunted.

Well, he wasna one to back down from a challenge. And truth told, he much preferred this new kind of arguing.


End file.
